No one had any questions, and as they were leaving Johansson first nodded curtly at Flykt. Then he smiled broadly at Lisa Mattei, asked for a copy of her typed-up meeting notes, and told her to take care of herself. Holt he completely ignored, and as they left he took Lewin aside.
“There’s one thing that disturbs me about this case,” said Johansson.
“That it may have been wrongly conceived from the start,” Lewin replied, who had been around before and heard Johansson expound on the same text on more than one occasion.
“Exactly,” Johansson agreed. “A lone madman who by pure chance runs into a completely unprotected prime minister and just happens to have a revolver the size of a suckling pig in his pocket. That’s what most people seem to believe, including the majority of our dear colleagues. So-a quiet question from a man in mature middle age: Just how common is that?”
“I understand what you mean,” said Lewin.
“Good,” said Johansson. “Then I’ll see you in a week, and if you happen to get hold of the bastard before that please let me know.”
2
After the meeting with Johansson, Anna Holt returned to her office at the national liaison office where she’d been working as a superintendent for over a year. She was careful to close the door before sitting down at her desk and exhaling deeply three times. Then she swore loudly and fervently on the theme of adult boys forty pounds overweight with red suspenders and the dual role of country boy comedian and head of the country’s National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. That gave her some relief, but not as much as she’d hoped, so when Lisa Mattei knocked on her door half an hour later she was still in a bad mood.
“How’s it going, Anna?” said Mattei. “You seem a little down.”
“What do you think?” interrupted Anna.
“Don’t get hung up on Johansson,” Mattei said for some reason. “Johansson is who he is, but he’s also actually Johansson. I’ve talked with Flykt, so we can jump right in. He’ll arrange it so we have our own access cards.”
“It’s time to embrace the situation,” said Holt. “High time to resurrect a dead parrot.”
“Exactly,” said Mattei. “You know yourself there’s more than one way to skin a cat, as Lars Martin would say.”
“Okay, okay, okay,” said Holt, sighing and getting up. So now we’re suddenly on a first-name basis with the world’s best Johansson, she thought. Lisa of all people.
Lewin had also returned to his desk. There he sat for a good quarter of an hour, criticizing himself for once again ending up in a situation that he could have avoided. Together with his top boss, Lars Martin Johansson, besides, with whom he tried not to have any contact otherwise.
The man who can see around corners, thought Lewin mournfully. That was how many officers always described him, especially when they had a few shots under their belt. The legend Lars Martin Johansson from north Ådalen in the province of Ångermanland. Policeman and hunter, with the same view of both justice and hunting, regardless of whether he took it out on people or on innocent animals. Johansson with his large nose and uncanny ability to sniff out the faintest scent of human weakness. With his jovial image and human warmth that he could switch on and off as he pleased. Shrewd, hard, and merciless as soon as it mattered, as soon as his prey came within reach and was worth the trouble.
Then he had a twinge of conscience. Johansson was in spite of it all a fellow officer, his boss besides, and who was he to judge a fellow human being he’d never had close contact with and really didn’t know that well?
High time to embrace the situation, Lewin thought. He picked up his desk phone and entered Flykt’s direct number.
“Welcome to the holy of holies,” said Flykt, nodding at the mountain of papers that surrounded Lewin, Holt, and Mattei. Binders and boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Stacks of boxes arranged in neat rows out on the floor. A room of over two hundred square feet that already seemed too small.
“Well, Jan, I know you’ve been here before,” Flykt continued, turning to Lewin, “but for you, Anna and Lisa, this may be the first time?”
“I’ve been here on a guided tour,” said Holt. “True, it was a few years ago, but the piles don’t look any smaller.” If Johansson has been here he’s either blind or crazy, she thought.
“A question,” said Holt to Flykt. “Has Johansson seen this material? At our meeting this morning I got the feeling he hadn’t.”
“I thought so too,” said Flykt, “but a little while ago one of my colleagues here at the group said that evidently the boss stopped by before his vacation. Although I was out so I missed that visit. I also suspect he’s gone through the parts of the material that are with SePo. I remember we got a request for additional information while he was head of operations there. Though perhaps you know better than I do, because you’ve worked there. And we shouldn’t forget that he’s been called in as an adviser to all the government commissions that reviewed how we more humble police officers have conducted ourselves over the years. If you ask me Johansson probably knows more than most of us.”
“God moves in mysterious ways,” Holt answered.
“So true, so true,” Flykt agreed with a smile. “Any questions, anyone?” For some reason he looked at Mattei.
Oy, thought Lisa Mattei, who had a hard time taking her eyes off all the papers. Working with this stuff must be like climbing a mountain. And I’m afraid of heights.
“It’s my first time here,” she said. “It will be interesting to see what you’ve collected.” Like climbing a mountain, she thought again as she let her gaze wander over the rows of binders.
“Yes, it has turned into quite a lot over the years, and there’s still a new binder every week. Mostly so-called crazy tips if you ask me,” said Flykt. “So I guess the least I can do is wish you luck,” he continued. “If you do happen to find something that my colleagues and I have missed, no one will be happier than we will be.”
Sounds like a pretty risk-free promise, thought Holt, who just smiled and nodded.
Unfortunately the age of miracles is probably past, thought Lewin, which of course he didn’t say.
And I’m scared of heights, thought Mattei, but that was not something she intended to tell her colleagues, not even Anna.
Lars Martin Johansson was in a great mood. He was satisfied in general terms and even more so with himself. He was most satisfied that he’d finally decided to do something about the police misfortune that went by the name of the Palme investigation. For more than twenty years the case had been the responsibility of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, for a few years ultimately his own, and it was about time for something to happen. During the last decade, after the last failure with the now deceased “Palme assassin” Christer Pettersson, the group that worked on the case had mostly been engaged in other things.
Identifying the Swedish victims of the tsunami catastrophe in Thailand demanded all their resources for more than a year. After that similar assignments had literally poured in to the Palme investigators. Swedish citizens who were abroad and subjected to political attacks, natural disasters and accidents. The little now being done about the Palme assassination mainly consisted of tending the circle of private investigators, conspiracy theorists, and those whom the police called, regardless of gender, bag ladies. All those who wanted to help and have complete knowledge of what he and his officers might contribute besides. We can’t have it that way, naturally, because then we might as well shut down the whole damn thing, thought Johansson. Then he’d made his decision.